Macabre Valentine
by TamakiCat
Summary: John is alone at home, mourning over the death of his best friend which he wanted to be more than that with...His sorrow is so overwhelming he had refused to go out since that awful event. But then, there is a constant knocking at the door...


_**Author's Notes : **_Please, tell me what you think of this! I had an urge to write a dark!Valentine fic.

_**Disclaimer :**_ I own nothing but the idea and my writing style.

Please, review :)!

Thank you!

_**Macabre Valentine**_

Some knocking at the door could be heard. It wasn't loud, nor too low, but quite constant...as if rythmed, following a somber melody. John Watson stood up from his bed, where he had been the last weeks, crying over the death of his best mate he wished could've been more than that; his body was so weak and numb from the sorrow, he just couldn't get out of the apartment despite all the phone calls he received. He grumbled while lumping towards the door. But when his hand reached for the doorknob, the door opened on its on suddenly. John gasped, opened wide eyes in shock, and stumbled a few feet backwards.

''I...wh-what is...H-How...B-...I...!'' he stammered, staring at the dark figure standing before him.

There he was, Sherlock Holmes, standing tall, yet with dead-looking eyes. But what was horrying the doctor was the blood all over his friend...All dripping down from his head, where John remembered he had hit the pavement...But Sherlock didn't seem to care as trails of it got into his mouth, fell on his now bloodied-scarf and coat, as he stepped forward like a robot.

''I...SHERLOCK! What-What are you do-doing here? You're..you're...WHAT HAPPENED? Oh gosh, let me help you!'' Watson exclaimed, panicked as he rushed to the bathroom to get towels, water, and his first-aid kit.

But a cold like ice hand grabbed his wrist; Watson turned to face him, scared.

''Sh-Sherlock? Wh-What are you doing? I...We must treat you! I...I don't know how com-come you can w-walk! B-But...I...''

But then he closed his eyes, taking a deep long breath; wasn't seeing Sherlock back what he had wanted the most? Wasn't that precise death that tore him apart from inside, invalidating him to even set foot outside and not care about anything else? He opened his eyes, and with sadness yet hope reflecting in them, he said :

''I'm glad you're back. Y-You don't know how much!''

Sherlock smiled slightly, his expression quickly going back to neutral; he was even paler than John could remember.

''But...But how did you do-''

And there Sherlock was wrapping his arms around Watson, putting his lips softly onto the doctor's, and bringing him into a passionate but loving kiss. Sherlock's lips were the only warm thing he seemed to have left. For a second, Watson wondered what was wrong, but as the kiss deepened, and his love for that man overcame his suprise at finally getting all of which he wanted, he just didn't care anymore... He let the man lead them through akward steps to John's bedroom, then got gently pushed down on the bed.

The great consulting detective climbed on top of him, and shot him a teasing smile to which he received a shy chuckled in response. He then leaned down to kiss John again... But it was then that John noticed something was wrong, _very wrong_...

''Sh-Sherlock...Y-You're bleed-bleeding from...'' he stammered again, face as white as a sheet, staring in horror at the wound on Sherlock's stomach.

It was growing by the second, blood staining his blue shirt all over...Watson could just blink and look at it, mouth-opened, awfully stressed as he observed this deadly vision... Sherlock hadn't been wounded there when the door had opened.

''Sherlock! What is this? WHAT IS THIS? Are you dying...AGAIN? Sherlock! ANSWER ME!''

Sherlock smirked, his eyes sparkled with what seemed to be malice and a dark idea. Then, he fell flat onto John's chest, and as the other man went to throw his arms around him, he disappeared as if smoke had stolen him. Watson gulped, glancing everywhere in the room, trying to understand it all, and find where Sherlock could have gone to. It was then he realized he felt an atrocious pain in his stomach. He looked down and saw the frightening wound he had seen on Sherlock's body...

''Oh no...''

And he understood it all. He let go of the knife he had in his hand, feeling weaker as time went by. He tried to get out of bed, but knew it was too late, so he just turned to the side.

''Sherlock...'' he whispered for the last time, tears falling down his cheeks as he was staring at a photo on his nightable of them together, falling into the deep big sleep where he hoped he wouldn't feel as numb finding that peculiar man who saved his life more times than he could ever imagine...


End file.
